Page 81 of Charmingly Obsessed
He presses my head harder into his shoulder, his body rigid with control, and whispers in a voice thick with emotion, “So good. So fucking good, I’d sell my soul for it.”
I cry out then, a high, thin, keening sound, as the tension inside me, coiled tight and hot for so long, finally snaps. All at once.
Pleasure floods my body, radiating outwards from my core, all the way to the tips of my fingers, the soles of my feet. I writhe in his grip, helpless, undone, but he doesn’t falter. Not even for a second. His hand, strong and steady, stays tangled in my hair, holding me close. He only leans in further, kissing my ear, his touch firm, grounding.
“Feel me, Diana,” he rasps. “Inside you. I… I— Fuck!”
I barely register the exact moment he comes inside me, the hot, pulsing flood of him. But I absorb the way his sweaty, heated body trembles, shudders, collapses against mine. The sheer force of his orgasm passes through me like a storm, like being wrapped in untamed, elemental energy itself.
I try to fall back onto the pillows, boneless, breathless, needing a moment to recover, to breathe, but Mykola tugs me down slightly, his arms still locked around me. He kisses my knees, taking his time, his lips soft, tender.
My dress has ridden up again, exposing the lower part of my stomach, the pale, sensitive skin there. He strokes it, his touch agonizingly slow, almost reverent, his gaze hot as he hovers over me.
“Shh, wife. Don’t move,” he murmurs, his voice still thick with spent passion. “I’m not done tasting these ridiculously long, beautiful legs yet. Don’t rush things. I can’t… I can’t keep up with you.”
I can’t help but smile. He’s so… gentle now. So careful. So… Frez.
He likes my reaction, that small, shaky smile. And with a knowing, predatory smirk, he takes my foot in his hand, bringing it to his mouth, and sucks lightly, experimentally, at my heel. Like some kind of… discerning connoisseur.
“Fresh,” he muses, his eyes glinting up at me through his ridiculously long lashes. “A little sharp. Tart, even. I think… I’ll take two.”
I giggle, a helpless, breathless sound, when he proceeds to nibble at the sensitive curve of my foot, my arch, my toes, in a series of playful, exquisitely torturous bites.
Later, much later, when I’m curled up on top of him, boneless and sated, drifting slowly, reluctantly, towards sleep, he plays with my hair, twisting a long strand around his finger. I lift my head slightly, watching him through heavy-lidded eyes.
There’s a thoughtful, almost pensive look on his face now. That same unreadable, enigmatic expression I first saw when he rescued me from Kozar’s thugs, from my old, haunted apartment.
He finds my fingers, lacing them through his, lifting my left hand. His thumb brushes, slowly, deliberately, over the simple gold band on my ring finger. Our wedding ring.
“We can get you something… more elegant, you know. Than this. Something… more fitting.”
“And you?” I whisper, my voice still husky with sleep and spent passion. “Will you wear one too?”
“I’m keeping mine,” he says, his voice firm, absolute. He brings my hand to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to the ring, then to my knuckles. “Forever, Diana. This one. Only this one.”
“Me too,” I whisper back, my heart swelling with a fierce, unexpected surge of… something. Happiness? Hope? Love?
I lean in to kiss him, but Mykola only studies me intently, his gaze searching, serious.
31
Chapter 31 Diana
Iknow Mykola Frez owns his own private jet.
A sleek, state-of-the-art Gulfstream G650ER, to be precise. I also know all sorts of excruciatingly dull, mind-numbingly specific details about Gulfstreams in general. Their cruising speed. Their maximum altitude. Their fuel consumption. Their preferred brand of complimentary mixed nuts.
Like everyone else in the Frez Enterprises “family” office does. It’s practically required reading.
Once, years ago, Mykola flew to New Zealand for a hiking trip and, in a moment of uncharacteristic carelessness, forgot his favorite, ridiculously expensive, hand-knitted cashmere scarf at the resort in Thailand, where he’d stopped over for a night.
The scarf, a monstrosity of oatmeal-colored wool that probably cost more than my annual rent, ended up being flownhalfway across the goddamn ocean by a smaller,charteredprivate jet.
It turned out that just the fuel for a long-haul Gulfstream round trip to retrieve said scarf would have cost over a hundred thousand dollars.
Even Mykola Frez decided that that particular expenditure was “a tad excessive” – even for his most beloved, irreplaceable cashmere scarf.
The word “excessive” lingered in the hushed, reverent corridors of the Frez Enterprises office for days after that.
